A Better Song
by moose-of-thranduil
Summary: Octavia always had a special spot in her heart for Ulfric Stormcloak, once her elder brother's closest friend, but it's been years since she's seen him and she's not the same silly girl she once was. Now, as she travels to Windhelm to deliver a message for Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun, she doesn't know what to expect.
1. Chapter 1

The Palace of the Kings was colder than she had imagined, and the Jarl of Windhelm warmer than she had expected.

"Octavia," he greeted her from where he stood on the dais, arms wide and welcoming. "Welcome to Windhelm," he announced as a couple of his Stormcloak guards escorted her into the throne room.

Octavia smiled and nodded her head. "It has been a long time, Ulfric," she agreed. And, indeed, it had been years. He had fought alongside her older brother Trajan in the Great War and had been a common guest in her family's home in Falkreath before he was captured by the Dominion. The only time she'd seen him since then had been Helgen—when she'd been terrified that the Empire would kill them both—but his cheerful reception of her soothed her nerves and relaxed her hunched shoulders. Yet, she still shivered in her light Imperial armor. Unfortunately, this was not a social call.

Her fingers tightened around the axe the Jarl of Whiterun had bidden her offer the Jarl of Windhelm. She was here not only as Balgruuf's thane, but also as a soldier of the Imperial Legion. Ulfric stepped down from his throne as if to embrace her, but Octavia held Balgruuf's axe out in front of her. He stopped in his tracks, the steel weapon between them draining the warmth from his countenance. Both of them stared at the blade, at the sudden barrier that had sprung up between them.

At the same time, they drew their eyes from Balgruuf's challenge and looked at each other. Neither one of them spoke, and his guards bristled uneasily.

He cleared his throat, the sound egregious in the quiet hall. "You are quite brave to carry such a message," he said finally. He shook his head sadly. "It's a pity you've chosen the wrong side…"

Octavia frowned. "Ulfric—,"

The sharp, dangerous look in his eyes silenced her. She bit her lip, and he went on, "You can return this axe to the man who sent it, and tell him he should prepare to entertain… visitors. I expect a great deal of excitement in the city of Whiterun in the near future."

She gulped, seeing it in her head—his Stormcloak army swarming through the quiet streets of Whiterun, burning the Bannered Mare and the homes of innocent people as it swept its way up to Dragonsreach, where they would corner Balgruuf, Irileth, Hrongar and the rest of the court. With the power of her thu'um, she might be able to hold Ulfric's men off for a time, but she doubted that Whiterun had the strength to stand against the Stormcloaks for too long, not without Imperial support.

Now, the axe seemed too heavy for her to hold aloft, and she let her arm fall to her side with the weight of it. "Ulfric," she said quietly, afraid that he might snap at her after all. "You don't have to do this."

He growled at her, every bit the bear his father was. "There is no progress without sacrifice," he insisted. "No wheat without threshing the chaff. The Empire and the jarls who back them must be swept away. The people demand it. I demand it."

She merely lowered her head. She knew better than to argue with a man as stubborn and haughty as Ulfric Stormcloak; he and her brother had been so much alike, and she had never won an argument with either of them. She stared at her dirty leather boots and her long, dusty legs, wishing that she had come under better circumstances. She wanted to rebuke him, to point out that there was more at work here than his little war—that Alduin the World-Eater had returned—but Balgruuf's warning was still fresh in her mind: _keep your wits about you and you won't be harmed._

Suddenly, Ulfric clasped her on the shoulder like an old friend. She looked up to see him smiling at her with that jovial, slightly lopsided smile that had rendered her speechless so many times when she was a girl. He was still just as handsome as she remembered, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious about the tangled, knotty state of her long dark hair. Without thinking, she smiled back girlishly.

"Tonight," he said. "Tonight, let us pretend that you are not my enemy. Let us feast and talk of happier, easier times."

And feast they did, but not until after Octavia had had a nice bath to wash away the filth of the war torn road. She brushed out her long dark hair, letting it fall loose around her face and shoulders, and set aside her armor in favor of a much more weather appropriate, much more feminine, fur-lined robe. When she was finished, she discovered that Ulfric had had a marvelous meal prepared—delicious venison, salted pork, roasted vegetables and buttery potatoes. Warm Nord mead helped them both to conveniently forget that he had become the leader of a rebellion and she a staunch defender of the strength of the Empire as they sat across from each other, prattling aimlessly about nothing of import… until she told him the biggest news that Skyrim had heard in centuries.

"Dragonborn?" he repeated in astonishment, almost spitting out his mead. "You? You are the Dragonborn soldier my men fought at Korvanjund?"

She smiled coyly. "I am."

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. "To think… you are certainly much more than the little girl I knew in Falkreath, always following on her brother's heels. Tell me, what did Trajan have to say about that?"

Instantly, her smile faltered, and she looked down at her drink instead of at the man at the table with her. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't know… that she would have to tell him. As much as she had loved her brother, remembering him brought her pain. The last time she had seen him, grinning at her as he left home for the last time, heading south with the Legion, was burned into her mind. She could still see the threads that had come loose in his boots, still wanted to make him take them off so that she could fix them…

"Trajan's dead, Ulfric," she whispered. "He fell with the White Gold Tower."

Silence. A long heartbeat, then another.

"I am sorry," he said finally. His voice, usually so proud and haughty, almost like a dragon's, had been knocked off its feet by her news. "He was a dear friend to me."

"I know."

His servants swept in to clear their plates from the tables and refill their goblets. Neither one of them spoke for a long moment after the maids left again. Neither one of them needed to.

Eventually, Ulfric cleared his throat. "Fight with me, Octavia," he said.

She look up at him sharply, staring at him with a blank look on her face. When she said nothing, he went on, filling the room with his zeal, "Avenge your brother. The Empire is weak. Without it, Skyrim can free itself of the Aldmeri Dominion. We can reclaim our homeland, worship whomever we choose. Skyrim can be strong again."

For a moment, she was almost convinced—she wanted to be convinced. He was so sure of himself—so sure that his cause was noble and true. But she could not join him. There was more at stake than a jagged crown and the government of Skyrim's nine holds. "My brother served the Empire, and, though I have always lived in Falkreath, my family is from the Imperial City. I am not a Nord, Ulfric. I am loyal to the Empire, and there is so much that you do not understand…"

"Loyal to the Empire?" he scoffed, sipping from his cup. "The Empire would have killed you at Helgen—or have you forgotten how close the headsman's axe came to your thin, white neck?"

"How could I forget?" she snapped. Every now and then, as she laid down to sleep, she felt the sharp steel on the back of her neck, warm with the blood of the poor rebel they'd executed before her. Her body had been paralyzed with panic, with the terrible, gray realization that her end had finally come. And then… then she remembered Hadvar, whom she'd thought would be the last man she'd ever lay eyes on. "But it was one of the Imperials who helped me to escape. Where were you, Ulfric? You were already gone. He saved me when I couldn't find you—despite the fact that his superiors wanted my head."

He merely looked at her, stricken by her words and unable to defend himself. He opened his mouth once, then closed it quickly as he thought better of whatever he had been about to say. "I am sorry," he said at last.

"You had more important things to worry about," she went on. "After all, what would the Stormcloak Rebellion be without Ulfric Stormcloak?" She mocked him as she asked the question, sitting up straighter and puffing up her chest. With a sigh, she relaxed a little and sipped her mead. "Hadvar was there for me when no one else was. He brought me into his home and made sure that I was all right. I owe him my life." Briefly, she met Ulfric's gaze, then blushed and looked away again.

"He loves you, doesn't he?" he asked quietly.

Octavia nodded slowly. "He does," she admitted.

"And you?"

She didn't answer right away. Had anyone else asked, at any other time, she would have confessed to it instantly. He was an excellent fighter, strong of mind and of body, and his kindness and honor knew no bounds. There was the way he could make her laugh without even trying and the way he laughed at her when he first saw how she held a bow all wrong. And of course, there was the way he could make her feel like the most beautiful woman in Tamriel with just one warm smile. She certainly had feelings for him, but now she was speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak—the charismatic boy who had grown into the larger than life Jarl who had murdered the High King of Skyrim. As a girl, she had worshipped him like Talos reborn, and, as an adolescent, she had imagined all the grisly ways she could get rid of the other young women who fawned over him. He was nothing like Hadvar, but maybe that was what she had always liked about him.

When she looked up at him again, she found him leaning over the narrow table towards her. He was so close that her nose almost brushed his as she raised her head. His eyes held her spellbound for a long moment, and her resolve wavered. Abruptly, she took a deep breath and leaned back. "Yes," she replied. "Yes, I do."

His face was unreadable, but Octavia got the feeling that he didn't exactly believe her. His eyes skimmed what remained on the table between them—a few stray pieces of silverware, a forgotten cloth napkin, and their empty goblets—before sliding up to her face once again. "It is late," he observed.

Automatically, she sprang to her feet. "You're right," she said quickly. "I should go. Get a room at Candlehearth Hall. I have a full day of traveling back to Whiterun ahead of me tomorrow. I should leave at dawn…"

"Stay with me," Ulfric said suddenly, watching her curiously as she stammered on and on.

"What?" she asked dumbly.

"Stay with me," he repeated. "Save your gold. I can even have your armor cleaned and give you supplies for the road."

She stared at him blankly, taken aback by his suggestion. He made sense, of course… she didn't want to have to pay for a room when he would offer her a bed free-of-charge, along with supplies and a clean set of armor to wear in the morning. Yet, she was reluctant to accept his offer. There was something about the look in his eyes that caused her to wonder where he would have her sleep. Of course, the mere thought was enough to excite her—to make her heart beat faster and her cheeks blush wildly. Had the circumstances been different, she wouldn't have even thought about refusing, but there was Hadvar to think about. Besides, they were on opposite sides of the war…

"No, no," she insisted, flustered now. "I couldn't impose on you. I'm your enemy now. It wouldn't be right for me to stay."

Swiftly, Ulfric rose from his seat at the table and approached her, chuckling at her in that low, seductive purr of his. "Octavia," he smiled, "you will never be my enemy." He stopped just in front of her, and she had to lift her head to look up at him in the candlelight. "Where is the girl who laughed at everything I said? Who was once overheard telling her mother that she would one day be called Octavia Stormcloak?"

It was amazing how he could make her feel like that girl again. When she was younger, every fantasy she'd ever had about growing up and being happy had included Ulfric—though they'd always moved to Falkreath because Windhelm was too snowy for her taste. Now it seemed as if he had always known that she'd been in love with him since childhood, and, whereas he'd spent his youth treating her like a sister, he was prepared to indulge her. It was too good to be true.

"She was tired of waiting for a dream," she said quietly. "She grew up and learned how to stick up for herself. She discovered she was Dragonborn, and the Greybeards and the Blades and the Empire all plucked her head out of the clouds and drove her feet into the earth."

"I think you're lying," he whispered back. "I think she's still here." He brought his calloused fingers to her chin and smiled down at her. "I think I saw her tonight, and I want her to stay with me. She is the only warmth I've felt in a long time—and Windhelm has been very cold."

"And what happens in the morning?" she dared to ask. "When we wake up and realize that we're on opposite sides of a war _you_ started?"

He kissed her gently on the mouth. "Then, you will go back to Whiterun, and I will send my army after you. There will be a great battle, and there will be many battles after it. And, one day, either you will march on Windhelm or I will march on Solitude. And when enough blood has been spilt and one of us is victorious, then perhaps we can have peace."

How could she refuse him? He was the man she'd always wanted to be with, and her feelings for Hadvar, while real, were eclipsed by the love and desire she had always had for Ulfric Stormcloak. "At least for tonight," she breathed, and, when he brushed his lips against hers again, she returned the kiss. He wound his bear-arms around her and effortlessly lifted her off her feet.

He carried her to his bedroom, where he savored every minute it took to remove her clothes, and she reveled in the solid planes of his warrior's chest and the scratchy tickle of his beard on her smooth skin. For that night, it didn't matter that he was Ulfric Stormcloak, synonymous with rebellion and patriotism, or that she was the Dragon of the Empire, sworn to serve his enemies. They fought a tender war between his sheets, and finally signed a wonderfully sweet treaty of peace in the early hours of the morning, after which she laid cuddled in his arms and he held her close. And they both dreaded the rising of the cold winter sun.

When it came, Octavia stirred from the light sleep that had taken her only hours before. Ulfric let her slide away from him, feeling her absence as a cold breeze where her body had once been. He watched with sad longing as she strapped on her armor and pulled on her boots. The previous night, he'd insisted that she take a pair of his fur gloves instead of wearing her Imperial bracers—at least then her hands would be warm. She turned back to him after pulling her hair back into a high ponytail, and he almost pulled her back into bed with him when she kissed him goodbye.

She left after that, heading straight for Whiterun and the great hall of Dragonsreach, where she relayed her ill news to the grim-faced Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. The city was prepared for an attack, and, when it came, Ulfric Stormcloak was not among his men. The Dragonborn drove the Stormcloaks back, though among the many who perished that day was Lydia, her housecarl.

In the months to come, the Dragonborn advanced through the ranks of the Legion as she led the Imperial soldiers to victory after victory. Hadvar fought at her side, never leaving her. He truly loved her, and she loved him too, but she thought often of Ulfric Stormcloak, who never once met her in battle. He seemed content to remain Windhelm and his great stronghold of the Palace of the Kings.

And one day, the Dragonborn led the Legion in the battle for the city of Windhelm. Behind the power of her _thu'um_, the Imperials pressed far into the city, and the Dragonborn shouted open the doors of the Palace of the Kings. Backed by General Tullius and Legate Rikke, she slew Galmar Stone-Fist and the last of the guards of the Jarl of Windhelm. As the General prepared to end the war with a single stroke of his sword, Ulfric Stormcloak, cornered, made one last request:

"Let the Dragonborn do it. It will make for a better song."

So Tullius deferred to the Dragonborn who nodded and stepped forward. She held her bloodied blade over Ulfric's neck, but she did not lower it. "Leave us," Octavia ordered her companions, who regarded her skeptically and made no move to go. She repeated herself with the strength of the [i]dov[/i], and, reluctantly, they obeyed.

Even now that they were alone, Ulfric did not speak to her, did not even look up to see her face. He fully expected that she would kill him, but she had known from the very start that she would never be able to raise a sword to him, would never even be able to use her _thu'um_ against him. "Get out," she said quickly. "Ulfric, get out. Hit me and run. Go somewhere far away from Windhelm, where the Empire can't find you. You have lost, but you do not have to die."

He turned his head slowly, finally finding the courage to look her in the eye. He seemed more haggard than he had been the last time she'd been with him. His hair seemed less brilliant, his eyes more haunted, and his skin much paler. "I can think of no better death than one at your hands, _dovahkiin_," he replied stonily.

She shook her head in frustration and dropped her sword. It clattered on the cold stone floor, startling him. "We don't have time to argue. If you love me at all, do not make me kill you," she pleaded.

He stared at her sadly for what seemed like an eternity. With his cause destroyed and his city fallen, he had little left to live for, and he yearned for heroic death and the eternal feasts of Sovngarde's Hall of Valor. Yet, he straightened slowly, rising stiffly to his feet, and considered her curiously. "Will you find me?"

She had no time to consider, as she could heard Rikke's impatient grumbling on the other side of the broken doors to the courtyard. "Yes," she agreed rashly. "Yes, I will find you. But, please—go. Now."

He smiled at her then, with that lopsided grin that she was so fond of, and open his mouth to use the power of the Voice. She fell, unconscious, beside the bodies of his soldiers, and, when Tullius and Rikke rushed in seconds later, with Hadvar close behind, Ulfric Stormcloak was nowhere to be found..


	2. Chapter 2

It would be months before the Dragonborn saw him again. She thought often of Ulfric Stormcloak in the days following the fall of the great city of Windhelm, but, as days grew into weeks, the Empire's search for the last rebel grew cold. The Dragonborn had other duties to see to, and defeating Alduin the World-Eater seemed more important than finding a man alone somewhere in the wilderness.

Octavia spent months investigating the mysterious and elusive Dragonrend shout, conversing with Paarthurnax on the Throat of the World and searching for the legendary Elder Scroll that appeared to be the key to Alduin's demise. It was common for her to be away from Proudspire Manor in Solitude for a fortnight at a time—away from Hadvar and from the beautiful city she had grown to call home. Slowly, she became less Imperial Legate and more Dragonborn—more Nord than anything else.

And finally, after the sun had risen and fallen over the northern tundra far too many times to count, she found it: the Elder Scroll, hidden away in an ancient Dwemer ruin. With it, she learned Dragonrend from those who had invented it so many years ago, and, at the Throat of the World, she fought him—Alduin, the Bane of Kings.

Yet, the World-Eater could not be slain in Tamriel.

In the days that followed, Octavia found Skyrim grayer and grimmer than before. While once she had found joy in its earnest beauty, now she saw a harsh and hostile land—filled with weak people who would soon die, only to enter Sovngarde and strengthen Alduin, who would use this power to destroy the world. She found no solace in the unending pines of Falkreath or the infinite tundra of the Pale. Not even seaside Solitude could ease her despair.

When she finally returned to her home, Jordis, her second housecarl, had prepared a lovely meal of venison and roast potatoes. They ate together, though Octavia had little to say. The meat tasted like charred skeever hide in her mouth, and the potatoes turned to ash on her tongue. She declined the sweet roll Jordis offered her after clearing the table, choosing instead to sit in front of the fire.

Hadvar arrived shortly after that, having heard from the townspeople that she had returned. Octavia heard Jordis meet him at the door, warning him of her melancholy state. "I suspect something went wrong in her travels," the housecarl said, "but she won't say anything about it."

Hadvar murmured something she couldn't hear, and a moment later she felt his large palm on her shoulder. She turned her head slightly to look at him, and he moved to crouch in front of her, sliding his fingers down her arm as he moved. He squeezed her hand, rubbing his thumb gently along the back of her hand. "What's wrong?" he asked.

So she told him, skimming over the less important details. The worlds spilled over her teeth like a waterfall over rocks. She hadn't wanted to talk about what she viewed as a hopeless situation, but now she couldn't stop herself.

When there was nothing more to tell and she fell silent at last, Hadvar took both of her hands in his and leaned forward. "There must be a way," he assured her, "and you will find it."

"How do you know that, Hadvar?" she said quietly.

"Because you are the reason we won the war," he said earnestly. "You scattered the rebels and defeated Ulfric Stormcloak, who murdered the High King. _You_," he went on, "are Dragonborn."

"Ulfric Stormcloak is no longer my concern," she snapped.

Hadvar stared at her for a moment. "Octavia," he said with a frown. Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he gently stroked the arches of her cheekbones with his thumbs. "Relax." He kissed the tip of her nose, then her lips. "Octavia, I love you, and I know that you can do this."

Slowly, she nodded, if only to appease him. "I'm sorry, Hadvar," she said as his hands slid to her shoulders. She forced a fragile smile.

"My Thane?" Jordis's voice drifted into the room from the foyer seconds before she herself appeared in the doorway. Octavia straightened self-consciously, and Hadvar brought himself to his feet somewhat clumsily. "A courier was just here. He brought a letter from your mother in Falkreath. Said it was important," she said with a shrug, holding a folded bit of parchment out for Octavia to take.

"Thank you, Jordis," she said automatically. Octavia unfolded the note without delay, and she was immediately grateful that Hadvar wasn't standing behind her and couldn't read over her shoulder. Her mother may have been the one to pass the letter on to the courier, but she was not the one who had written it.

_You said you would find me._

It wasn't signed, but she didn't need the name of the man who had sent it. It was a smart move on his part. No one intercepting the letter would be able to tell who had written it, and anyone who knew its source would be likely assume that the cryptic message from a mother could be easily understood by a daughter. Still, Ulfric Stormcloak was the last thing she needed to deal with at the moment. Was stopping the end of the world not enough? Why did the Eight have to further complicate her life?

Hastily, she stood. "Jordis, prepare supplies for a journey to Falkreath," she ordered as she stepped toward the stairs. "I must leave as soon as possible."

"What's wrong?" Hadvar asked as Jordis turned to obey. His face was clouded with worry. "Octavia, you just returned. Is your mother all right? Surely she can wait a day or two."

"No," Octavia said quickly. She tried to step around his larger frame, but he caught her wrist. "No, my mother can't wait. She's ill, Hadvar, and I must go to her."

He sighed, but did not release her. "At least let me go with you," he said.

"No," she insisted, almost too vehemently. "No," she repeated softly. "Hadvar, I'm sorry, but I must go alone." The look on his face told her that he didn't understand. She felt terrible for lying to him, but there was no way that she could explain why she had let Ulfric Stormcloak escape from the Palace of the Kings or how he was now spending time with her mother in the South.

One finger at a time, Hadvar loosened his grip on her wrist and let his arm fall limply at his side. "As you wish," he said, and she went upstairs to gather her things.

A short time later, Octavia stood with Hadvar on the road beside Katla's farm. Aside from the richness of her fabrics, she was dressed like any other traveler, as she often chose not to wear her Imperial uniform unless she was on Imperial business. She wore a gray velvet cloak over leather pants and a well-tailored tunic, and Jordis had insisted on twisting her long dark hair into a practical braid before she left. As she fed her mare an apple, Hadvar finished checking that all of her supplies were safely tucked away in her saddlebags.

"Are you sure you must go alone?" he asked again.

She laid a hand on his forearm. "Yes," she replied. "Don't worry about me, Hadvar. I've traveled the length and breadth of Skyrim on my own many times, and, now that the Empire has reunified the province, the wilderness has never been safer. Besides," she added with a bit of a wry smile. "I'm certainly capable of handling any bandits."

He smiled back, though he still seemed to have reservations about letting her go. "You're right, of course," he conceded. "I'm sorry for fussing. I've seen you fight, and no man can contend with that Voice of yours."

She almost lost her smile at that, as she knew that that wasn't entirely true. The man whom she was going to meet had a powerful Voice of his own. Hadvar didn't seem to notice her reaction, however, and he gathered her into his arms for a warm hug. "Octavia," he said nervously as he released her. His hands held on to her shoulders as he looked down at her with kind eyes. "May I ask you something?"

She blinked. Suddenly, he seemed so serious. "Of course," she said.

"Will you marry me?"

She stared at him for a long moment of stunned, heavy silence. Beside them, her house shifted almost uncomfortably and whinnied for her attention.

Octavia knew that Hadvar loved her; she'd known that for some time now. Another day, she would have accepted his proposal without a second thought. There was not a doubt in her mind that he would be a caring husband and a wonderful father to whatever children they might have. Thanks to their service in the war, they were both well-off, and their future would be as secure as anyone's could be while Alduin haunted Skyrim.

But how could she even think about marriage when the weight of Tamriel was on her shoulders?

And then there was Ulfric… who had to come back into her life just in time to keep her from saying yes to another man.

"Octavia?" Hadvar said quietly.

She took in a deep breath and saw the fear of rejection plainly in his handsome face. He was so kind and gentle… how could she hurt him?

"I will marry you…" she told him shakily. "When Alduin has been slain. On the day I take his soul, I will marry you."

She felt relief wash over him like a cleansing sea breeze, and the smile that spread across his lips was as pure as snow—so bright and happy that she almost forgot that she doubted her ability to make good on that promise. He picked her up and swung her around in her arms, and then he kissed her like a delighted lover. "I love you," he declared as he finally set her down again. "Octavia, you have made me the happiest man in Skyrim."

Her knees were weak, and she had to lean against the horse to steady herself. She smiled and, with some difficulty, managed to climb into the saddle. "I don't deserve you, Hadvar," she replied. Then, she nudged her horse forward and took off down the road.

It was dark when she arrived. Octavia's mother still lived in the house in which she and her older brother Trajan had grown up, just to the southeast of the city of Falkreath. While she had been a girl, they had lived on the coin that her father brought in from his place in the Legion and from doing odd jobs for the Jarl. Now that her father was dead, her mother kept an herb garden and sold ingredients to Zaria, the city's apothecary. Octavia had not been home for years—not since she'd strayed too close to the border with Cyrodiil and found herself on the executioner's block. She'd written to her mother many times, however, to assure her that she was all right.

Now, she slid out of the saddle and tethered her mare to one of the wooden posts of the fence that enclosed her mother's garden. Her eyes fell on the familiar deathbell and nightshade plants, and, for the first time, she regretted not coming home. Perhaps if she had let Hadvar bring her home like a proper lady instead of letting her sense of adventure get the best of her, she would never have become mixed up in all of the dragon business.

But what would have been the point? Alduin would still have returned, and he would have had no one to oppose him. Well, no one but Delphine and Esbern.

She patted her horse's flank affectionately before turning toward the house. Would Ulfric be waiting for her inside? Having tea with her aging mother? What would she say to him? How could she explain why she'd never looked for him or how she had almost wished she would never see him again?

Someone grabbed her roughly from behind—one arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her backwards, while the other hand covered her mouth to muffle her yelp of surprise. She struggled against her attacker, but the man was bigger and stronger than she was, and she couldn't shout if she couldn't speak. When she tried to bring her heel down hard on his foot, he easily stepped out of the way. He found the dagger on her waist before she could reach it, and she wished in vain that she hadn't left her sword on her saddle. He held up the blade as if examining it, then removed his hand from her mouth.

He chuckled low and deep in her ear and released her slowly. "Calm down, Octavia," he purred.

She could scarcely believe her ears.

"Ulfric," she growled.


	3. Chapter 3

_I apologize for taking so long to update. I struggled a bit with a couple of the scenes in this chapter, so I hope you like it!_

* * *

"This was your brother's dagger," he said, eyeing the smooth steel of its blade. The leather strips that had been wrapped around the handle were old and beginning to come undone, but Trajan had kept the blade itself in pristine condition—except for one small, defining imperfection.

"I remember the day it got this scratch," Ulfric went on. He ran his fingers slowly over the fine indentation that stretched almost from hilt to tip. When Octavia turned to face him, she thought she could see the nostalgia clouding his moonlit eyes. "Our commanding officers had sent us on a recon mission, and we stumbled across some Thalmor scouts. Trajan almost got us killed because he wouldn't leave this _lucky_ knife behind." A hint of a laugh crept into his deep voice, and he shook his head fondly. "I am glad that you have it now."

Octavia sighed and shifted on her feet a little uneasily. The shock of being grabbed by an unknown assailant at night, so close to where the Dark Brotherhood was rumored to be based, hadn't quite worn off yet, and the familiar sadness that came with her brother's memory threatened to seep into her bones. "Were you expecting someone else?" she asked.

"I am a wanted man, Octavia," he replied as he handed Trajan's dagger back to her. She took it eagerly and slid it back into its sheath, happy to have its comfortable weight on her hip again. "I survived this long by being careful."

She looked at him again, noticing for the first time that he wasn't wearing the rich fabrics and lush furs that had been his choice as Jarl of Windhelm. As her gaze brushed along the crudely sown leather he wore instead, she wondered if he'd killed the bandit he'd taken the armor from or if he'd merely robbed him and moved on. He still wore his steel war axe, but he also had a short sword on his belt and a bow and quiver on his back. Had he needed the extra weapons in lieu of his Voice? If he was smart, he would use that power even less than he had before to keep from drawing attention to himself.

"And you thought that leading anyone hunting you straight to my mother, an older woman with no means of defending herself, would be wise?" she asked.

"Octavia, your mother is safer with me here than she was on her own," he scoffed. Octavia rolled her eyes at his arrogance, but he shook his head. "The night after I arrived, I was standing just there," he said, pointing to the edge of her mother's garden. "I heard voices through the trees—three men, bandits by the way they spoke. They had heard that the woman who lived here was the mother of a very high-ranking Imperial officer, an officer who was also thane in two holds. They reckoned that such a woman must have some treasures worth stealing.

"I waited for them here, and I killed all but one of them. They were sloppy fighters, untrained and undisciplined. The one that I spared… I made sure that they hadn't come looking for me, and then I killed him too."

Octavia lowered her head. She hadn't thought that her success and good fortune could put her mother in any sort of danger. In the beginning, she had asked her mother to come and live with her in Solitude, but she was too fond of the Pine Forest and of her garden to leave. Octavia should have known better, should have insisted. Now, if not for Ulfric… she didn't want to think of what could have happened to her mother.

That thought, compounded by his last implication, sent a shiver down her spine. "You mean you tortured him?" she asked quietly, not sure she wanted him to answer. She had seen terrible things during her time with the Legion, but none sat so unwell with her as the stories the torturers used to tell, bragging about their methods—about the best ways to leave men writhing and bloody, begging for death, willing to betray even their closest friends if only their captors would send them straight to Sovngarde.

Ulfric nodded solemnly. "I learned from the best," he replied. "From the Thalmor."

Octavia bit her lip. She wished she hadn't asked. She knew that he had been taken prisoner and tortured for information by the Thalmor during the Great War. She hadn't wished to make him relive the memory. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "For my mother."

He chuckled. "She has thanked me many times herself. Believe me," he assured her, and that brought a smile to her face. Her mother had always been fond of Ulfric; her whole family had loved his spirit and charisma almost as much as they had treasured his honor and his friendship with Trajan. Her mother had probably held a feast in his honor the minute he arrived even though he must have been covered in dirt, sweat and a little bit of blood. She would have been doing everything within her power to make sure that he was comfortable, even though he was a fugitive from the Empire that commanded her loyalties.

He followed her into the house, where her mother was cleaning up from the evening meal she'd shared with her unexpected but not unwelcome guest. It had been more than a year since Octavia had seen her mother, and she stood a little stiffly just inside the doorway before her mother looked up from the candlelit table and saw her. Her mother was an older woman, born and bred in Cyrodiil before marrying the Tribune Marcus Octavius Sanctus and relocating to Skyrim with him to start a family. Yet, Lucia Sancti still burned with the fire of a much younger woman. Her face was lined with graceful marks of her years, but her smile was warm and her brown eyes relieved when she saw her daughter. Her simple dress was a far cry from Imperial finery, but she was beautiful nonetheless.

"Octavia," she said, coming to stand in front of her long absent daughter. She briefly laid her hands on Octavia's shoulders and cupped her cheeks as mothers are wont to do before holding her tight and kissing her forehead.

Octavia smiled and laughed. "All right, mother," she said. "I'm here, and I'm safe." She pulled out of the older woman's embrace and removed her cloak, allowing her mother to get a better look at her.

"But not well fed, I think," she announced judiciously. "Though I suppose all those months on campaign in this land would slim even the plumpest of men. Come," she said, turning back to her small kitchen. "Sit," she added with a gesture to the table. "I have some stew left, and you will eat it."

"The stew was very good," Ulfric added, and Octavia's stomach growled at the thought. She remembered her mother's stews and soups, and how she and Trajan used to joke about how they were the only things their mother was good at cooking. In truth, they were delicious whether they were made from rabbit, venison or even just a collection of edible herbs. She sat eagerly, quickly brushing away her mother's comments about her figure.

"And after you eat," her mother continued as she warmed a bowl of stew over the fire, "You can get rid of those men's clothes and put on something more appropriate for a lady. If you didn't bring something with you, I'm sure one of my old dresses will fit you nicely."

Taken aback, Octavia turned to Ulfric for help, but he smiled wryly and said, "I would like to see you in a dress."

She scowled at him, but he continued to hover in the corner, content to give her and her mother their space for the moment. "Mother, this is much more practical attire for traveling, and my clothes are finer than you would think. Do you have any idea how expensive this shirt was? Everything's twice the price in Solitude."

"That may be so," her mother countered as she placed a steaming bowl of stew in front of her daughter, "but how can you expect to find a husband when you insist on dressing like a man?" Placing her hands on her hips, she went on, "When I was your age, I'd been married for several years and I already had your brother to deal with. What are we going to call you if you don't have a husband? You want to be Octavia Draconi? That's what all this dragon business will get you."

Quietly, Octavia ate a couple spoonfuls of her mother's savory stew, but she was quickly getter just as hot as her food thanks to the nagging. She didn't want to lose her temper with her mother so soon after being reunited with her, but the letters they'd exchanged while she was away had been filled with this same kind of badgering nonsense. Usually, she ignored it, but now that didn't seem like an option.

"And then your brother's old friend Ulfric shows up on my doorstep and tells me that he's been looking all over Skyrim for you," she went on, barely pausing long enough to take a breath between sentences. "Why, I hoped that maybe _he_ wanted to marry you, but then he told me that he was a fugitive in his own land… as if I didn't already know that. I do keep up on current events, you know."

Wide-eyed, Octavia slowly lowered her spoon and turned to look at Ulfric. Though his face was almost completely covered in shadows, she saw him shift his weight uneasily. "Mother," she said, turning back. "I…I…"

She stuttered and stumbled over the simple word, tongue tied by her mother's statements. How much had Ulfric told her about that night they'd shared in Windhelm before the storm? Had they spoken of her? On the way from Solitude, she'd puzzled over whether or not she wanted to tell her mother about Hadvar—particularly about her tentative promise to marry him. While it would stop any nagging about not being married yet, she wasn't sure she wanted to share that information with Ulfric, especially not _now_.

"What, Octavia?" her mother asked.

"There is someone," she said. "Do you… do you remember what I told you about the soldier who helped me out of Helgen?"

Her mother's eyebrows tilted upward in expectation. "Ah, yes. What was his name? Hadrian? Harold? Halvor?"

"Hadvar," Octavia said.

"So?" he mother pressed. "Out with it."

Octavia drew in a sharp breath and hesitated. She could feel Ulfric's blue eyes on the back of her head, and she could almost hear him listening carefully, waiting for whatever she was about to say. "He has asked me to marry him," she said slowly. "I have told him that I will. Once all of this dragon business is taken care of."

Her mother, beaming with a smile brighter than the flickering candlelight, almost skipped over to her daughter, placed her hands on Octavia's cheeks and kissed her with joy. "Wonderful news!" she trilled. "Wonderful news! You will, of course, tell him that I want to meet him? And his family too, of course…"

But Octavia didn't really hear her mother's next words. She felt like she was underwater, and her mother's voice was distant and distorted. She turned away from her mother, looking over her shoulder instead. Ulfric met her gaze for a cold moment, and Octavia felt the chill of his eyes in her heart. Then he turned without a word, pulled open the stiff wooden door and walked out into the night.

* * *

Ulfric leaned against the rickety railing along the porch in front of Lucia Sancti's cottage. The wood was rough beneath his calloused fingers, but he didn't seem to mind that any more than he minded the chill in the evening breeze. He wore the stone visage of a finely carved statue. Had Octavia not known better, she might have mistaken him for a tribute to Talos.

She shut the door quietly behind her. Her mother had fallen asleep after cleaning up after their meal and thoroughly interrogating her about Hadvar and their plans for the impending wedding, and Octavia had no desire to wake her. She knew that she would not be able to sleep without at least trying to speak to him.

"I thought that night meant something to you," he said without turning to meet her. "I thought that your sparing my life meant something to you."

"They did mean something to me," she said. "Ulfric, I…"

"Then why," demanded Ulfric, rounding on her like a bear with an arrow in its gut, "did you agree to marry this man?"

Octavia backed away from him instinctively. She bit her lip, caught by the strength of his voice. Even without the power of the _thu'um_, Ulfric Stormcloak was not to be trifled with. "I told you that I loved him."

He growled with exasperation. "Do not insult me, Octavia. You did not mean it then, and you do not mean it now. If you had loved him, you would not have shared my bed. Or am I wrong to assume that you are not a harlot? Perhaps the Imperials passed you back and forth around the campfire. Nights in Skyrim can be so very cold…"

"How dare you!" Octavia snapped. "How _dare_ you insult me." His crude insinuations had sparked a fire behind her brown eyes, and she stepped toward him without thinking. "I am the Dragonborn. I am a Legate in the Imperial Legion. Most importantly, I am the one who spared your life. Show me the respect I deserve, King-Killer."

Ulfric was silent for a moment, and he considered her with a controlled kind of anger. Her calling him King-Killer seemed to have affected him in some way, as had her reminding him that he owed her his life. "You must show me respect in return, Octavia," he said finally. "I am Ulfric Stormcloak, and I am the rightful Jarl of Windhelm. I deserve to be High King of Skyrim, and I wield the power of the Voice. I was your brother's closest friend, and I want to know why you are marrying another man."

Octavia sighed heavily, her anger quickly fading in light of his words. She looked at his feet and clutched her arms awkwardly. "Hadvar loves me," she whispered. "He loves me very much, and he is a good man. The two of us could have a good life together. Our children would want for nothing."

"Am I not a good man, Octavia?" he asked.

She gave a nervous laugh. "You started a war. So many people have died because of you. Your arrogance is matched only in the narrowness of your mind."

"Can I not be kind?" he intoned gently. "Can I not show mercy? You criticize me fairly, Octavia, but see also my strengths. I have the courage to fight for what I want, for a free Skyrim—for what I _love_. I may be a wanted man, but surely there are more important things in life than a large house and a purse full of gold."

She lifted her head and looked up at him, and her eyes widened when she saw how close they were standing. "I don't want to live on the run," she said.

"I don't want to see you with another man's child," he said. "You are all that I have left, Octavia."

She smiled at him, but it was the kind of smile that only touched her lips. Her eyes were sad, her brows upturned. "Help me destroy the World-Eater," she said. "Then we can talk about whom I will marry."

Ulfric smiled then, and his smile did reach his eyes. "I would be honored, Dragonborn."


End file.
